


Butterflies and Needles

by sloppyseconds



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Crimes & Criminals, Dan is 17, Drug Use, Falling In Love, Graphic Description, It gets kinda fucked up, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Instability, Mentions of childhood abuse, Murder, Partners In Crime type deal, Phil is 21, Robbery, Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, will add more tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2018-10-20 15:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloppyseconds/pseuds/sloppyseconds
Summary: What is a seventeen-year-old child with religious delusions to a gas station clerk with a needle in his arm?





	1. the prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: don't read this if you can't stomach graphic descriptions of murder, violence, or sex. also, there's constant references to childhood domestic and sexual abuse. i'll try my best to put warnings in front of each chapter, but it's likely that i'll forget, so here's your warning now. 
> 
> anyway, i've been working on this thing for a while. hope you like it!

   There is a loud thud accompanied by the sound of Dan’s mother screaming for mercy from the living room. His father yells at her to shut up. Dan turns his music up louder. Adrian is sobbing and huddled under the bed, tiny hands pressed over his tiny ears to block out sounds that would forever haunt him. Dan yells at him to shut up. 

   Dan Howell gets in his first fight and loses his two front teeth. The perpetrator’s bruised knuckles look like muddled paint: red, black, and blue. Dan wonders what sort of illustrations those colorful knuckles have painted. A crying mother? A shattered mirror? All Dan can think about is art before the sharp crack reminds him that he’s going to be his father’s knuckles’ next masterpiece: a bleeding son.

   Dan Howell is called to stay after class for failing a test. The teacher’s friendly smile and gentle touches give way to evil intention, which drips like thick oil into a pristine ocean. Dan’s body is the sea and he’s being smothered in inky blackness so that he won’t have to repeat his eighth grade year. Dan can’t walk straight when he’s sent home, nor can he scrub the oil off of his skin after the fifth shower, but he crawls in bed, puts his earbuds in, and turns his music up louder.

   Dan Howell is sent to the high school counselor because a friend is “worried” about him. The counselor has him roll up his sleeves and is surprised to find no horizontal stripes etched in his arms. The bruise on his eye and his crooked nose are only products of “falling down the stairs”, so he is sent back to class. The school calls and notifies his family of the visit to the counselor. Dan goes home and his body is a blank canvas decorated with red, black, and blue.

   Dan Howell drops out of high school a few months before his seventeenth birthday. He returns to his parents house to put his home in a little backpack before running away. No missing persons reports are filed and Dan wonders if his mother and little brother are dead. He doesn’t have headphones anymore, but he steals a guitar from the nearest pawn shop and plays it until his fingers sting worse than his daddy issues.

  It is Dan Howell’s seventeenth birthday and he’s just turned twenty-one. He puts on a mask and purchases a pistol from a man who seems to ooze oil. Dan’s waters are already polluted; he gets a discount on the gun in exchange for a sore jaw.

   Dan Howell likes to think that he feels no fear as he presses the gun to his head and the inside of his cheek. He wonders how people like Ernest Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson got the balls to end it all. Dan opens the chamber and lets the bullets clatter to the ground-- a symphony of cowardice that he isn’t able to appreciate.

   Dan Howell only feels fear when he stands in front of a 7-Eleven at 12:03 AM on a Friday night. The gun is in his hand and his lungs are full of oil as he stares the building down. He begins to backtrack and wonders if this is all worth it.


	2. the gas station.

   Dan never pictured himself in a situation like this, but they say there’s a first time for everything: a first time for walking, talking, love, and robbery, in Dan’s case. He yanked his ski mask down, obscuring all of his features save for his eyes and mouth. Even though it was impossible, Dan was still concerned that the low-quality security cameras would be able to pick up his identity.

   He rolled up the sleeves of his tan, Marlboro-branded coat. It was ironic that he had it at all, considering that he’d never smoked a cigarette in his life. Perhaps he wore it because it was fashionable, perhaps it was because it was the one piece of his father that didn’t remind him of misery and the color red.

   Dan steeled himself, struggling to ignore the quaking in his legs and the way his hands felt as if they’d disconnected themselves from his body and dropped to the asphalt beneath him. He had to double check to make sure that they were still attached. Dan loaded the pistol in his grip, his fingers just as numb as his insides.

   Dan lifted his head to stare down the 7-Eleven, watching the weak fluorescent lights flicker. It was almost as if the bulbs were taunting him, the little hisses of electricity morphing into teasing laughter. The building was so much bigger than Dan, standing enormous among skyscrapers and condos. It looked bigger than God.

   He pushed the chamber into place with a click, and suddenly, everything was thrown into perspective. What was God? Dan couldn’t possibly compare God to a 7-Eleven with flickering lights and a lack of customers. No, that wasn’t God.

   God was a seventeen-year-old boy standing in front 7-Eleven, drinking the ambrosia that was a half-full pint of Smirnoff found on the edge of a garbage can. He brandished a pistol that smelled of suicidal thoughts and would act as his crucifix-- this was the downfall of God.

   Dan aimed the gun at the lights through the window and the fizzling laughter stopped. A satisfied smile stretched across his face as he sized up the building. No longer was it massive; Dan was God and 7-Eleven was his altar. The people inside would bow to him and beg for mercy.

   Dan barged in with little hesitation, his eyes flitting around to survey the inside of the gas station. The slushie machine off to the right churned day-old ice and blue syrup into a drinkable paste with a soft whir that sounded more like a chorus of angels. Dan was holy and he felt utterly invincible. For a moment, he was able to forget every shade of red, black, and blue. If only Dad could see him now.

   There was only a man standing behind the counter and he reminded Dan of rainy days with gray skies, blue gas station slushies, and sacrilege. He had glasses perched low and precarious on the downwards sloping bridge of his nose. A cigarette sat between his lips, another tucked behind his ear. His hand was crawling its way under the counter, searching for what Dan could only guess was an alarm button. Blasphemous.

   What is a seventeen-year-old god with a gun to a nonbeliever with a nicotine addiction and a panic button?

   “Press that fucking button and you’re dead!” Dan couldn’t recognize his own voice. He had tried to come off as intimidating, but it sounded as if the frightened child within him was trying to climb its way up his throat and escape, scratching furiously at his esophagus as he went.

   “Whoa, whoa.” The clerk was holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay, my hands are off of it-- don’t shoot.” Despite the fact that his life was on the line, the man still brought his hand down to collect the cigarette and ash it carelessly to the side.

   The man behind the counter reminded Dan of the tip of his cigarette, glowing bright and resilient in the face of death. Dan tightened his fist around the gun. He wanted to grind this man out on the pavement until he was nothing but a mere black smudge against the concrete. Why wasn’t he frightened? Had that insignificant, weak inner child finally made its way out of Dan’s mouth and taken his place?

   Dan shook off the thoughts and tossed a pillowcase into the man’s hands. “Put the money in there.” He barked out, eyes darting from the clerk to the wall behind him, which housed bottles of nectar that promised eternal youth and longevity. Dan was a god and Jim Beam could be his ambrosia. “Give me the liquors up there too-- a-and the cigarettes. Move faster!”

   Dan caught sight of the clerk’s eyes, which glinted like crystals under the fluorescent lights that continued to scintillate and titter. The man’s hands were shaking, but so were Dan’s. The clerk thrust the bag forward once it was full and swelling with Dan’s accomplishments.

   Before either of them could move or say a word, sirens erupted from outside. The clerk let out a breath Dan only now noticed he was holding. Fear cascaded down him like oil, staining his clothing and filling his lungs at an alarming rate.

   “You fucking liar! You pressed it, you fucking pressed it!” Dan threw the bag over his shoulder and whipped his head around, scanning the gas station in search of a way out. The lights flashed in tune with his heartbeat. The sirens were fast approaching and Dan was choking on air. The man behind the counter was inching away, his gaze trained intently on the pistol.

   Dan wrenched the hammer of the gun back, his eyes wild behind the mask. He could kill the clerk, he could send one bullet through his head and transform the wall behind him into a work of art; red and vibrant.

   Regardless of his thoughts, Dan couldn’t bring himself to wrap his finger around the trigger. All he could think about was his father and oil and the flashing lights that were pulling up outside. In a panic, Dan spoke, his voice trembling, “You’re coming with me.”

   The clerk’s eyes grew wide, a series of pleas escaping his lips as a flash of genuine fear crossed his face. Despite his begging, Dan wasted no time in pressing the barrel of the gun to the back of his neck and leading him out the back door in silence.


	3. the hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i kind of feel like this chapter is a downgrade from the first and i'm sorry in advance if it doesn't make a lot of sense. i seem to only want to write this when it's the middle of the night and i'm exhausted. 
> 
> regardless, i hope you like it.

   Dan had never driven a car in his life, but they say there’s a first time for everything. He slammed his foot on the gas, his knuckles porcelain white as he gripped the steering wheel. He was worried that if he loosened his hold, he’d float up and out of the car. Dan bit down on the inside of his cheek to help ground himself, hardly flinching as he began to taste blood. It was a familiar flavor, one that he was well acquainted with.

   Dan had learned that the clerk was called Phil due to the name tag pinned on the front of his shirt. He had been knocked unconscious by the butt of Dan’s pistol in the back seat of the car. His crystalline eyes were dull and his glowing personality had turned to nothing more than gray ash for the time being. Dan’s belt was cinched around his hands and acted as makeshift bindings. 

   Unsurprisingly, Dan’s faulty wiring and pathetic short-term memory had gotten them lost. He took turns each time they came up, driving the car in a multitude of shapes. Squares, pentagons, circles. Shapes were practical and useful in art and geometry, but Dan had never been particularly good at either of those things.

   After what felt like years of driving with paranoia and foreboding hanging over his shoulder, Dan came across motel that reeked of prostitute hookups, murder, and oil. Despite this fact, he pulled into a parking space and yanked the key from the ignition, silencing the rumble of the engine. Now he was left with nothing other than the sound of his own labored breathing and the sickening sensation of fear trickling its way over his being.

   What if the police found him here? What if there was some way that they could track this car? Dan felt his insides ignite with sheer terror as the weight of what he’d done settled on his awkwardly narrow shoulders. They shook as if the bones were about to break and collapse inwards.

   Dan was in possession of not only shoplifted liquor, money, and cigarettes, but a fucking hostage. How was he supposed to check into a hotel with a pillowcase full of stolen assets and an unconscious clerk? 

   Someone was stirring in the back seat, which effectively tore Dan from his paranoid delusions. The handgun had been discarded in the cupholder for the duration of the drive, but he was far too disoriented to think about grabbing it. Instead, he peeked over the seat and watched the clerk with intense eyes.

   Phil rose from his twisted position in the back, groaning as he surveyed his surroundings. A gash was present on his forehead, blood blooming out of it like a carnation in spring. The crimson blended nicely with the ghostly white of his skin, and Dan found himself thinking about art instead of the crushing reality that came with being a wanted criminal.

   Dan focused on the red of Phil’s forehead, which was trickling downwards and drying into his eyebrow. With almost childlike curiosity, Dan leaned over the seat and extended a hand. The color was mesmerizing, and all Dan could think about was his own beating heart and bruised knuckles and paintings. Phil snarling at him and thrashing his head forward like a wild beast was enough to bring Dan back to reality. Sinner.   
  
   “I’m not going to hurt you.” Dan promised feebly, cringing when Phil knocked their skulls together with a resounding clunk. “You’re wounded. I’m just trying to assess the damage!” Dan rubbed at his own sore forehead, launching his left hand forward to hold Phil by the jaw and restrain him.

   “Get your hands off me, you psycho!” Phil was a rabid dog, gnashing his teeth and fidgeting aggressively with the bindings around his wrists. His eyes were menacing, holding promise of a fight as soon as his hands were unleashed. Before Dan could even think to restrain him, the jingling sound of a belt being undone was heard and Phil’s fingers were wrapped around Dan’s throat in a bruising hold.

   Instead of oil, Dan was choking on cigarette smoke and the buttons on a cash register. There was something in Phil’s hands that reminded him of the ocean and the color blue, but perhaps that was only because Dan was psychotic idiot trying to find the beauty in a life that was nothing short of a lackluster mess.   
  
   Dan clawed at Phil’s arm, watching as angry pink lines appeared in his wake like paint on a blank canvas. “Who do you think you are trying to kidnap me? You bastard, you’re going to be so sorry that it was me you decided to take with you.” Phil’s left hand shot out, and Dan’s mask was pulled up and off in one fell movement.

   The rabid dog that was Phil’s anger was put down with a painless dose of Pentobarbital. His frenzied expression fell, leaving him wide-eyed and silent as the grave.

   Dan’s brain felt like television static as he continued to squirm in his grasp. The only sounds between the two men were the piteous, mousy squeaks coming from a teary-eyed Dan. His vision was spotting with black and all he could think about was how blue and red complimented each other. If he was an artist, Phil with that gash on his head would have been inspiration for a painting.

   Out of nowhere, Dan was able to breath again, his lungs crying out like starved animals as they greedily sucked in air. He spluttered and choked, the white noise in his head fading away once his body had deemed that enough oxygen had reached his brain. He scrambled backwards, his back colliding with the steering wheel as he and Phil stared at each other, looking as if they were attempting to figure out which one of them was the bad guy.   
  
   “Bloody hell, you’re a kid.” Dan didn’t like to consider himself a kid. People had sympathy for kids, but nobody felt sympathy for Dan. He couldn’t understand why Phil was looking at him like that, his shimmering eyes almost apologetic. What if Phil was a father? What if he had a son that Dan reminded him of? Father. The word made Dan feel sick. Phil was speaking again, but he sounded foggy and far off, like Dan was hearing him through a telephone wire. Even if Dan wanted to hear him clearly, he was too focused on the way ‘father’ had two syllables that tasted like blood and bile to do anything about it.   
  
   “Oh my God.” Phil shook his head, but winced and stilled his head once he realized that he was wounded. He brought a hand up to his forehead, examining the blood that had imprinted on his fingers. “Did you do this?” If Dan wasn’t mistaken, Phil was speaking to him.

   “Oh...my God?” Dan echoed, unable to formulate any sentences of his own. He sounded similar to a robot, mocking Phil’s words in a higher pitch. The gun lay accessible between the two of them, but neither boy nor man reached for it. 

   “I’m talking to you.” Phil remarked stiffly, “Did you give me this?” he raised a hand, pointing at the gash on his forehead as if Dan hadn’t spent too long observing it and comparing it to flowers and all sorts of beautiful things.   
  
   Dan was smearing tears from his eyes like Phil had done with the blood from his wound. His vocal cords were tied together in knots as he struggled to explain himself. All that came out of his mouth was television static.

   Phil’s gaze was flickering between Dan and the car door, and suddenly, his hand was inching towards the handle. Impious. Shaking fingers somehow found the gun and Dan was pointing it at Phil’s head. Their gazes met, and the world stopped spinning on its axis. Everything was frozen save for the two men inside of the vehicle.

   All Dan could think about was how the petrified little child within him had taken full control of his body as he spoke. “Please don’t leave.” He brought a coat sleeve up to his nose to smear away the snot that had accumulated from crying. 

   “Okay, I’m not leaving, just put the gun down.” Phil spoke carefully, the tone and pitch of his voice seemingly calculated, just like a mathematical equation. Maybe Phil was good at geometry. Maybe he could make sense of the squares and circles and pentagons that Dan never had been able to. “C’mon, love, it’s okay. Just-- yeah, that’s it. Put it down.”

   Dan lowered the gun, eyeing Phil like he was an animal, feral and unpredictable. It wasn’t a smart move for Dan to drop his guard in front of someone he’d taken hostage, but Phil’s gentle tone had managed to send a wave of calm rippling over him. Dan was a sucker for anything that resembled love or care, and it was no surprise, as he had been starved of it for the majority of his life.

   “Alright, can you tell me where we are?” Something in Phil’s voice set alarms off in Dan’s head and he was worked up all over again. Gas station slushies, rainy days, and cigarette smoke. Everything muddled together to create something sweet, something manipulative and intelligent, something terrifying. It was something that Dan wasn’t going to fall for.

   “No.” He responded firmly, “You’re going to tell the police, I’m not an idiot.” Dan was chewing on the inside of his cheek again. Unsurprisingly, he could taste pennies. “W-We’re checking into the hotel and you’re going to behave...or else.” Despite his words, Dan felt as if he was the one being held at gunpoint  
  
   Phil sucked in a breath, “Kid, come on, I need to get home, I won’t tell the cops--” 

   “I’ll shoot you if you don’t do what I say!” Dan’s voice was hoarse when he shouted. It felt like an empty threat, but Dan was well aware of the loaded gun in his hand and what sort of oil he’d submerged himself in to get it. He wasn’t bluffing.  
  
   Phil gulped and held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, okay...okay.” A cigarette, stamped out on gray pavement, leaving only a little black smudge in its wake.

* * *

 

   Checking into the hotel was like clockwork, mechanical and simple. The woman behind the counter didn’t have any suspicions, but that was likely because she was cracked out worse than Lindsay Lohan. She had a familiar tiredness in her eyes that Dan had seen in his own a number of times. She quivered when she spoke.

   Once they were awarded the room key, Dan led Phil inside, the barrel of the gun pressed firmly to his back as an ever-present threat of death if he chose to act out. Dan was a god once again, and the trashy hotel room was to act as the confessional. If Phil didn’t bow and turn himself over behind that counter, he would here.

   The hotel room’s floral-printed wallpaper had since curled up and rotted off, leaving drywall decorated with mold in its wake. The scent of mildew and filth filled the room and created an aura that made Dan and Phil both shudder. The air conditioning didn’t seem to work either, judging by the brown recluse meandering along the web-covered vent. Stains littered the carpet as well as the bedsheets, and Dan found himself thinking a bit too hard about the source of the crusty patches on the pillowcases. This place had long since gone to the dogs and Dan couldn’t imagine it being any more perfect. 

   This hotel room wasn’t pretty, but God wasn’t pretty, either. God was vomit stains on carpet and the smell of mildew. God was a mentally unstable seventeen-year-old boy holding a grown man hostage. What else would he be? A big man in the sky playing chess with humans acting as his pawns?

   “Do you believe in that kind of god, Phil?” Dan didn’t realize that he’d said anything out loud until Phil responded to him, his voice a low rumble that made Dan think of storm clouds and sprinkling rain.

   “The heck do you mean, kid?” Phil shifted uncomfortably as they made their way past the beds and towards the tiny closet beside the bathroom. Dan prodded the gun at his hip almost playfully, and Phil winced.

   “Like, the whole big boss in the sky dynamic.” Dan was holding a conversation at gunpoint. If he wasn’t, Phil wouldn’t have even bothered talking to him. Dan thought about intimidation. To use intimidation to get what he wanted was nothing short of cowardly and it made him think of his father. Maybe Dan was a coward. Maybe Dan was just like his father. “Do you believe in that?”   


   “I don’t believe in anything. I’m an atheist.” Phil admitted, glancing over his shoulder to look back at Dan. “Will you shoot me if I ask you what kind of god you believe in?”   
  
   Dan didn’t even have to consider his reply, the words rolling off of his tongue like oil and drizzling onto the floor. “I think that I am a god.” Dan was nothing short of cowardly, nothing short of terrified, and nothing short of absolutely batshit crazy.

 


	4. the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait on this chapter life has been #wild.  
> also i apologize for any mistakes i kind of threw this out there last minute

_Light poured in through the window like liquid gold, spreading warm and shimmering over Dan’s shirtless figure, making his skin look almost pearlescent. He stirred in his sleep and blinked his eyes open, the blurry hotel room coming into view. Dan rolled over on the cloud-like mattress with a groan and stretched out. The world around him felt floaty and angelic, as if he had somehow died in his sleep and awoken in heaven._  
  
    _Phil was laying beside him, all crystal eyes and rainy days. He rolled over atop Dan, grinning down at him like a lovestruck puppy. Dan found himself offering a sleepy smile in return_.

     _“G’morning.” Phil greeted in a murmur, pressing his cigarette smoke lips to Dan’s in a feather-light embrace that made the sunlight from the window seem to shine even brighter. Phil slipped down further, his lips like honey, sugary sweet as they connected with patches of Dan’s skin._  
  
    _Kisses were trailed from Dan’s neck to his collarbones, to his chest and down his stomach. His skin was a blank canvas decorated with blooming rose-colored bruises that made him feel cherished instead of miserable. Palms were splayed across his hips, pinning him down to the mattress as Phil sank lower, lips ghosting across the skin above the waistline of his boxers--_

 

* * *

 

   Someone blasting “La Bamba” from the room beside his was all it took to bring Dan to consciousness. He’d been sleeping in the bathtub beside a dead brown recluse, one of his awkwardly long legs hanging over the edge.

   He jerked up, shielding his face from the weak yellow light illuminating the bathroom. The 60-watt bulb burned brighter than the sun for a few moments until his tired eyes adjusted. Dan dragged his hands over his face, which felt as if it was sticking to his fingers like hot candle wax. For a moment, Dan was convinced that the dim lighting was melting his skin off. Perhaps he could turn on the water and wash his melting body away until he was nothing more than a skeleton.

    Instead of doing that, Dan opted for sitting upright. He groaned, his muscles suffering the aftermath of a mangled sleeping position inside of an acrylic tub. Dan just ignored the incessant pounding in his head and the way the music from the other room made it worse.

    He carded a hand through his hair and cringed at the slick, greasy texture. He wiped his fingers on the leg of his pants as if it would rid him of the oily feeling. Dan couldn’t recall the last time he showered, and since he was laying down in a bathtub, he figured there was no better time than now.

    Dan shed himself of his clothing, leaving only his shoes and coat on the ground. Orange boxers, black striped sweater, and tight jeans pooled at his feet in the tub. He turned his gaze to the grimy tiles of the bathroom floor. Dan couldn’t tell if they were green due to the lighting or if mold was inching its way up through the cracks.

    Once Dan was entirely naked, he paused to look at himself in the mirror and could only sigh at what he saw.

    A bony, pathetic creature stared back at Dan with murky brown eyes that reminded him of mud and filth. The lighting accentuated the purple bags beneath his eyes and the way his cheeks hollowed out. Pale, scarred skin was pulled taut around sharp bones, giving Dan the appearance of a skeleton. His legs and arms were nothing more than sticks dangling off of a scarecrow. How unbecoming.

    He turned the shower head to the warmest setting, ignoring the way that the water cut into the skin on his back like hot knives. Dan clutched a single-serving bottle of shampoo in his hand and squeezed out a generous amount, scratching it almost aggressively into his scalp.

    The clothing beneath his feet soon was drenched, so Dan crouched down with the provided bar of soap and scrubbed them until suds formed on the fabric and dirty water snaked its way down the drain. There was a loud bang from somewhere in the room, but Dan chose to ignore it as he finished his task of washing up.

 

* * *

 

   Dan padded out of the bathroom, clad in nothing more than a towel wrapped around his waist. There was another bang, and Dan was able to identify that it was coming from the closet. He meandered about for a bit before stopping in front of the narrow door, eyes scanning over the slate-colored paint that was peeling away.

    He opened the closet carefully, unsurprised to be met with Phil, bound by the wrists to the closet rod with Dan’s belt. What was surprising, however, was the fact that he was slumped up against the wall and quivering like an abused animal. It appeared as if the life had been drained out of him; a sweat had broken out on his skin.

    “Phil?” Dan furrowed his brows, taking a step away from the closet, confusion etched into his features. Phil’s body looked as if it was trying to purge itself of demons, his mouth, nose, and eyes all leaking as his gaze snapped up to lock with Dan’s own.

    Phil’s eyes were frenzied, but he remained silent. Not a word was spoken between them as Phil pulled roughly at the bindings around his wrists. He only succeeded in wrenching his arm around so that it was facing outwards. Dan was able to see small, reddish-brown marks along Phil’s forearm like the stars decorated the night sky. His veins were deep blue and bulging against the skin, like brushstrokes snaking along a canvas. Dan extended a hand, dragging his fingers across the ropey arm veins almost curiously. Phil had lost all fight, he only continued to shiver as Dan examined him.

    “Oh, so you’re a _junkie_.” Dan observed, glancing to Phil’s face momentarily to gauge his reaction to the words. The two locked gazes, and despite the fact that Phil had fallen victim to withdraws, the look in his eyes made it apparent that his thoughts were still calculated and calm. “What am I going to do with you?” Dan let out a manic sort of chuckle, a hint of urgency in his voice.

   Phil appeared to be on the verge of getting sick, his eyes fluttering shut. He took deep breaths, as if he was focusing all of his attention on not vomiting. “You’re going to let me go so that I can go buy smack. I won’t tell the police, we can pretend like this never happened.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

   “Are you fucking crazy? No! God, no!” Dan all but ripped his hand away from Phil’s arm as if his damp, pale skin had scorched Dan’s fingers. “You’re not going to leave me! You can’t leave me. If you need...uh...”  
  
   “Heroin.” Phil chimed in, his tone reminding Dan of his mother for a split second: irritated and desperate.  
  
   “If you need _heroin_ , we’re both going to go out to get it.” Dan finished, folding his arms over his bare chest. He couldn’t release Phil, but he couldn’t let him wither away inside of the closet either. As strange as it was, Dan felt indebted to his hostage. After all, Phil had shown a bit of compassion in the car the other night by not ending Dan’s life.

   Phil gawked at Dan for a moment before shaking his head, “Oh, no. No, no. There’s no fucking way that I’m going to take you with me. You’re a mentally unstable _child_ , it would just be cruel for me--”  
  
   “Fuck you.” Dan breathed, the comment about being mentally unstable effectively catching him off guard. His mother was talking to him. His mother had died after Dan left and somehow reincarnated into a male gas station attendant with a heroin addiction. “I am not mentally unstable.” A nagging voice in the back of Dan’s head repeated the same series of words in a steady chant: unholy, godless, blasphemous.

   Then there was silence.  
  
   “If you don’t take me, then there’s no way for you to get a fix, mate.” Dan finally spoke and stepped back, threatening to close the closet door on Phil. Before he could shut it completely, there was an urgent shout of protest coming from the inside. A satisfied smile stretched across his face at that. Dan had total control over this man.

   “Okay! Okay, we can go together.” Phil gave in, and Dan opened the door without hesitation.

    Dan had never seen heroin in real life before, but the movies portrayed it as little bags of snow that somehow turned to honey-colored syrup under heat. Dan could compare himself to heroin; melting under the flame of stress.  
  
   “Where do you get heroin?” Dan asked as he reached up, untying Phil’s hands from the closet rod. Raw, inflamed, red carnation corsages were now wrapped around his wrists, matching the one that had bloomed from the gash on his forehead.

    Phil sighed and pulled his arms close to himself, rubbing at the skin of his wrists to soothe what Dan could only guess was burning pain. “I know a girl. I can give you directions to her, because you’re obviously not about to let me drive.” Phil looked Dan over and let out a huff, shedding himself of his shirt, leaving him in a white wife beater. Dan was able to see freckles dusted along his shoulders. Tiny, circular, pale pink scars were littered across his arms that reminded Dan of lipstick kisses. “Here, make yourself decent.” 

   “My underwear are still damp.” Dan informed, arching a brow curiously. Last time he checked, normal hostages weren’t so quick to share their clothing with their captor. There was something different about Phil-- maybe he really did have a son that reminded him of Dan. 

  
   “Oh, Jesus Christ.” Phil’s hands were down at the front of his jeans, undoing the belt and slipping it out of the loops.

 

* * *

  

   All Dan could think about as they sat in the car was the way Phil’s underwear were loose boxers instead of the tight kind. He licked at his chapped lips and attempted to focus on the road, but paranoia had inched its way under his skin like a parasite. Dan was checking behind himself every few seconds, the fear of being followed hanging heavy in the air.

   Phil sat in the passenger seat, jeans low on his hips and knees pulled awkwardly up to his chest. A cigarette was resting between his trembling fingers, the nicotine hardly curing his shakes. When he turned to face Dan, a halo of sunlight surrounded his head. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were leaking tears that rolled down his cheeks. The Weeping Madonna.

   “You’re going to want to turn here.” Phil remarked, using his cigarette to point in the correct direction. He pulled it back, taking a drag and holding it in for a moment before breathing out. The smoke tumbled past his lips and danced through the car, smothering the old leather scent of that seemed to permeate the air and choke the both of them.

   “Park over behind that apartment complex.” Phil brought a hand up to wipe the tears from his face. “We’re going to have to do a little walking to get to her.”


	5. the needle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was sad to see this left sitting for so long so here's what i already had written. i didn't really bother to proofread, sorry
> 
> i'm not really into d&p anymore, so i'm not sure if i'm ever going to continue, but i might whenever creativity strikes. who knows

Through an alleyway, then a hole in a fence, and into a multi-story apartment complex that looked ready to be demolished. Phil had his clammy, quivering hand linked with Dan’s the whole while as they stumbled through the city streets, the two of them looking like spectacles. When they entered, the building was a living thing, swelling and shrinking with the breath of homeless people, drug addicts, and squatters.

Dan, in nothing more than a shirt and plaid boxers, inched closer to Phil and squeezed his hand with force. Phil returned the squeeze in a reassuring manner and Dan could taste honey. 

“Hazel?” Phil’s voice cut through the sounds of the building like a sharpened knife.

Five foot eight, rather tall for a woman; thin like a model with synthetic blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. She smiled with her absinthe green eyes and cherry bomb lips. A swan among a sea of ducks; she didn’t look like she belonged here. 

“Phil!” The woman, Hazel, grinned and Dan could see a set of large, pearly teeth peek out from between her lips. “What’dya know? I thought you were dead!” She was hurrying up to him, her bare feet pattering against the filthy concrete floor and her yellow sundress reminding Dan of an overturned buttercup. “Gosh, you look near death, are you alright?” 

Was this woman an angel? She seemed untouched by the death and decay that had consumed the dilapidated building. No, definitely not an angel. A skinwalker: a monster who was able to put on a visually pleasing disguise. 

“Why the heck would you think I was dead?” Phil’s hand was ripped away from Dan’s own in order to be placed on Hazel’s shoulders. Dan watched them beam at each other as if they were long lost lovers. Maybe they were. "Do I really look like the kind of person who would just die on you?"

Something inside of Dan told him to grab Hazel by the shoulders and snap her in half like the twig she was. He wasn’t a beast by any means, but he could do it.

“You went missing after that gas station robbery, so I just assumed that you were taken by some freak and killed! It’s all over the news.” Hazel laughed, a full-bellied laugh that made Dan’s skin crawl. He attempted to scratch subtly at his arm, but he raked so aggressively at his skin that it began to turn red. “Thank God you weren’t. Where have you been? Were you really kidnapped? You’re going to go to the police so they stop the manhunt, right?” 

The questioning was beginning to terrify Dan. His mind flashed back to the other night in the 7-Eleven, the lights outside the window, the gun, the jail time that he would be forced to endure if they caught him. “Just give him the fucking drugs, bitch.” Dan snarled, pushing his way into the conversation and creating a barrier between Phil and the woman in front of him. “We came here to get heroin, we’ve got money-- just give it.”  Dan shoved his hand in his pocket, pulling out a wad of pound notes that he’d collected on the way out of the hotel room.

Phil all but threw Dan out of the way, letting out a frustrated sigh as he locked eyes with Hazel once again. “Ignore him, Hazel, he’s just a...he’s a kid I picked up. You never know what you’re going to get with hitchhikers.” Phil extended a hand, placing it gently on Hazel’s shoulder. He was still shaking like a leaf, but the touch was clearly gentle. “He’s, er-” Phil used his free hand to point at his head and move his finger in a circular motion. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. 

“Uh huh.” Hazel’s chirpy demeanor dropped almost instantaneously as she pulled the bag off of her shoulder, digging through it absently. “Maybe you should work on teaching him some manners.” She placed a bag of white powder in Phil’s hand, and Dan watched as he tightened his fingers around it with surprising intensity. “You’re lucky that he’s with you.” She brushed a strand of sunshine-yellow hair behind her ear and took a deep breath, seeming to recharge the energy she’d lost from dealing with Dan.

Phil pocketed it and offered Hazel a weak smile. “Thanks so much, love. I’ll be back again.” Phil leaned forward, cupping Hazel’s jaw and pulling her into a disgustingly passionate kiss. She glanced over at Dan once she pulled away, a gentle smile appearing on her face.

For some reason, Dan’s eyes started to sting. Tears threatened to fall like oil down his cheeks.

* * *

 

Dan stumbled out of the pharmacy, feeling dazed as he stared down at the syringe in his hands. The bright lights had only succeeded in giving him a headache and making everything seem dreamlike. It felt like the man behind the counter was spying on him, like the people waiting in the chairs were profiling him. Ever since the robbery, the entire world had felt like one all-seeing-eye. Dan wanted to retreat to the hotel room and lock himself away like he did when he was a kid. The room could be his pair of headphones; the thing that kept him sane.

He scrambled into the car where Phil was waiting patiently, eyes focused on a fresh cigarette resting between his fingers. Ash dropped from the end, staining the interior of the car with sooty blackness. Phil wasn’t smoking, he was just watching it burn. Cherry red soon faded to a dull gray, and Phil dropped the butt out the window. Dan wondered momentarily if Phil was comparing it to something in the way that he always did, maybe he thought it was art? Oddly enough, Dan wanted to open up Phil’s skull and explore all of his honey-drenched thoughts. 

“Did you get the needles?” He asked, breaking the silence with a voice that sounded like crinkling plastic bags and misery. Phil’s lips were chewed raw, blood pooling out from deep bites that were sure to leave sores. Dan wasn’t sure why, but a feeling of excitement ran through him at the sight of someone so vulnerable. For once in his life, Dan was the wolf with the rabbit between his teeth, not the other way around.

“I did.” He remarked, handing them over to Phil with only a little hesitation. 

* * *

“Have you ever used heroin before?” Phil’s voice sounded like TV static, and it was only when he repeated himself a few times that Dan was able to comprehend what he was saying. HIs mind felt like it was giving out on him, like even it had gotten so sick of sloshing around in oil that it chose to shut down. “Are you listening to me?”

“No.” Dan answered both questions with one word, his eyes trailing along the stained blanket as they sat together on the bed, cross-legged and close. Since the confrontation with Hazel, Dan hadn’t let Phil move farther than arm-length. “Can’t you just do it for me?” Dan presented his arm, putting all of his trust in a hostage. 

If Phil wanted to, he could miss the vein and kill him. He could inject air into his bloodstream and get out of the motel. He could become an author or a painter and express the torture that Dan had put him through in a beautiful way. He could tell his story to millions in front of a camera. Phil could break his arm and take all the money and go on a crime run of his own.

But he didn’t.

Gently, almost as if Dan was something as delicate and easily-destroyed as a butterfly, Phil took his arm. He flicked the full syringe and pushed a bit of it out, similar to the way doctors ensured that no air bubbles were in a vaccine. “It’s going to feel like a rush.” He stated, penetrating Dan’s skin with the needle. He didn’t flinch, it felt like nothing in comparison to some of the pains Dan had endured. The injection was quick, and Dan watched with wide eyes as the dark liquid left the syringe and found a new home under his skin. It was beautiful, in an odd way. The warm brown contrasting with the medical white of the syringe. Or maybe it was the warm tone of Dan’s skin contrasting with Phil’s own pale complexion.

About as quickly as Dan had come around, he was gone again. His whole body, which had felt like an unwelcoming prison for the past seventeen years, was now a cradle for his soul, warm and inviting. Dan blinked slowly up at Phil, his breath hitching in his throat. There were no words to describe the feeling of utter relaxation that washed over his being, which felt more like it was made of marshmallows than blood and bone.

“Yeah, I know, it feels good.” Phil murmured in response, a tiny smile on his face before he returned his attention to his arm. His eyes focused carefully on the veins as he injected some of the substance into himself. The frightened rabbit that Dan had taken to go get his fix was gone, replaced with the self-assured, relaxed creature he’d met at the gas station. Maybe Phil was a god too, in his own right.

Dan wasn’t able to keep track of his thoughts or words, and his inner monologue made it’s way into conversation. “...Phil? Are you in love with Hazel?” There was no venom behind his voice, only warm honey that dripped from his lips and onto the bed. Dan wondered if it would leave a stain. He toyed with the hem of the shirt Phil had leant him, the fabric like cashmere, encouraging Dan to snuggle down into it and relish in the feeling. 

Phil shrugged his shoulders, his movements having slowed down to nothing more than mere blips. He was sprawled back against the bed, his eyelids hanging low. “I was a long time ago, but a doctor can’t have relationships with their patients...you know?”

Dan understood, but he couldn’t vocalize it well. It seemed as if all of the synapses in his brain were making their way through molasses, getting stuck and never reaching one another. Dan was made of candle wax again, but this time, it was a cinnamon and honey scented candle. A scent that left him feeling enlightened and relaxed.  He melted on top of Phil, his bones and muscles incapable of holding his own weight any longer.

“You seem really interested in me.” Phil hesitated, “But I don't know a thing about you.”

Dan’s defenses had since sunk in the sea of molasses, along with all of his boundaries and fears. “My mum named me Daniel, but everyone calls me Dan.” He murmured, nuzzling into the warmth that the body beneath him provided. “I just turned seventeen...and I don't think I'm going to get any older.”

“You're going to get a lot older, just wait." Phil sounded oddly optimistic for someone in his position. "Seventeen, huh? Why did you run away from home and kidnap some guy at seventeen?” Phil raised his head, baby blue eyes locking with Dan’s own, making him feel as if a warm, salty wave was crashing over him. He was drowning in his gaze, but every breath he sucked in tasted like honey and cinnamon and he never wanted it to end.  
  
“Cause I wanted to feel alive.” Dan let out a laugh, a high-pitched giggle that sounded like a beam of sunlight. “I had almost killed myself hours before I met you.” The tone of his voice had changed. The child that screamed and tormented his throat was silent. Nothing hurt anymore. Dan’s father was an artist and his mother was a singer, together they created something artistic and beautiful. There was no pain. Dan was seventeen.

“Why?” Phil didn’t appear shocked, but the tone of his voice made it apparent that he was. “What about your family?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Dan waved his hand, brushing off the subject like it was something irrelevant. “I don’t have one. I don’t have friends, either.” Dan paused, “My father liked to hit things, my mum didn’t have the balls to protect herself or her kids.” He sighed, the words flowing out of his mouth without restraint. “I don’t care for them.” He meditated on his words for what felt like a hundred years before he spoke again, “I love you, though.” 

“Shoot.” Phil murmured, “Do you even know what you’re saying right now?” Dan felt a hand resting on his back, rubbing it softly. Phil was handling him like a butterfly again, careful not to crush his wings. It was the kindest touch he’d received in years. 

“Yes?” Dan furrowed his brows, struggling to recall what he’d said a moment ago. "Um...no?" It was no use, his brain had since turned to honey like the rest of his body. Unable to focus on anything aside from the thumping lullaby of his heart pumping blood and heroin through his veins, he found himself drifting off.

**Author's Note:**

> i'd appreciate kudos/comments :D


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